This is my house, freak. I grew the grasses long and stained the windows so no one will pray for me when I dance naked in the afternoon light or snuff out candles with my tongue. I planted black tourmaline stones and sprinkled salt along the property line so only the kind-hearted may step into my space, and I bled on the ground in my garden to bid the sultry Goddess and twisted horned God to bless my small piece of our wounded Earth with their ecstatic union.

This is my house, freak. I built it deep within the depths of hell for a reason. Here, I can watch Inanna pass by window on her way to the Underworld. Here, I am a voyeur eyeing the demons as they make love and hearing the shadow creatures croon hymns to the descended masters. Here, I am not alone in my quest for the raw and the real, and these black-eyed monsters know me better than those to whom I was born.

This is my house, freak. Come in, and sit for a spell. Let me show you where I scry the future out of found bones and shed antlers stained with moon-blood. This is my altar where I kneel, weep, and wail for planet Earth, and this is my table where only those who have gone into the depths of their psyches and faced their own black, dripping darkness are welcome. Here is where I burn poison roots and beg the holy feminine to rise out of the hidden, damp caverns where She has been crouching these last long years. Here is where I write my verses of the wild Witch, and here is where I sleep only to commune with the otherworld, only to see dream-visions of intergalactic webs steeped in pink-gold light, only to hold hands with the numinous infinite and hear promises of humanity’s divine destiny.

This is my house, freak. What of it? In my kitchen, I brew bitter elixirs for soul-damage and bake beauteous, many-layered cakes for the magickally starved. I spend long hours stirring my thick, savory antidote to institutionalized religion, seasoned with a good deal of spit and vitriol, and I sip a spicy self-esteem booster to fire-up my will.

This is my house, freak. Only the weirdest and wildest are welcome, and, to you, my door is always open. I have no time for those who come to gawk or sell me prepackaged spiritual solutions. You cannot vacation in the Underworld, and my home is no place for a tourist. This is the house of the wily, wayward Witch, and I am only here when I crave a soulful rootedness the top-side world does not offer. Knock on my door, but don’t flinch when I answer it bare-breasted holding a candelabra. If I do not answer at all, wait for me on the porch and have the fallen angels make you a cup of tea until I return with blood on my face and the bones of who I used to be in my bag.

This is my house, freak. I come and go as I please. Never ask me where I’ve been or how I got home. Do me the small courtesy of leaving all just as you found it, and I will keep a bed made for you in the room haunted by my grandmother’s ghost.

This is my house, freak, and you are my most honored guest. My appetite for normality died long ago, and I crave your dark humor and twisted company. I’m so glad you braved the storm and made the journey here tonight. You are just in time for a sumptuous supper of forbidden fruit and blasphemous delights, and I did not realize I was lonely until you arrived.

cr